My Nana's hands

I keep thinking my parents are in their 50s.

Which is, of course, impossible, given that I am in my 50s. The numbers just don't add up.

Of course, although I am in my 50s, I keep thinking I am in my late 20s. Which is, of course, impossible, given that all four of my children are in their 20s.



My grandparents on my dad's side were always old. That is how I remember them. Always old. When I heard tales of the wild man my grandfather was in his youth, I always had trouble matching my ol' grandpa with the wild moonshine-running teen.



But my mother's parents didn't seem so old. My Nana's hair was red and my Grandpa Bill's hair was black-- and thick. They laughed out loud, and often.



I tend to forget the beer and cigarettes.



I do remember one moment when I really saw my Nana's hands. I was always her favorite. I think she was the only one in my family who thought of me as her favorite.

Of course, one shouldn't have favorites; still, since my brother was everyone else's favorite, I valued my Nana's special attention.

Her hands.

I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 and we were going to walk out to the hillside garden where my grandpa was planting. My Nana took my hand.

And I looked. I really looked.

My hand was small and smooth. Nana's hand was freckled, and wrinkled. Her hand was calloused and strong.

And I felt safe.